


Lesson

by WeNeedARuse



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Control, M/M, Smut, This is me, one small instance of breath play ish, some choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22803445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeNeedARuse/pseuds/WeNeedARuse
Summary: "The heart rending futility of desire. In all it’s purity and it’s stupidity. In all it’s games and retreats, its needs and its wants.Teach you a lesson…And Arthur will say, please.Please."Yeeeeeah.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Dutch van der Linde, vandermorgan
Comments: 18
Kudos: 122





	Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> I FINALLY WROTE A THING *dramatic crying*
> 
> It might not be a good thing but it is still a thing!
> 
> Based loosely off the "Teach you a lesson" vid that's floating around, I just had to do it.
> 
> Comments and Kudos would be so appreciated right now, you don't even know.
> 
> Please enjoy!

The heart rending futility of desire. In all its purity and its stupidity. In all its games and retreats, its needs and its wants. 

Teach you a lesson…

And Arthur will say, please.

Please.

Love has nothing to do with it. A word so little in comparison to the feeling. A word understood so never needed to be spoken. An understanding. 

...you won’t forget.

Yes and yes again.

There is and will only ever be one man for Arthur.

They don’t really argue, not about the big stuff. Sure they fight and they disagree and Arthur storms off and Dutch broods, Hosea plays the peacemaker and John wanders what the hell is going on,

But they don’t really argue about them. Them as in, Arthur and Dutch. Together in heated rushed moments. Never spoken aloud to any other living soul. No. They don’t argue about them.

But sometimes,

Oh, in his deepest heart of hearts where the darkness curls up inside,

Sometimes Arthur lives for the moments that Dutch will snap, and snarl, the beast awakened, to take it all out on him.

Lose control.

So Arthur cajoles and he teases, he pushes and insults and gives everything in his arsenal to hear those words.

A lesson you won’t forget.

Teach me teach me yes please Dutch. Please. Lover friend mentor brother. Yes.

I am bad. I am wrong. Teach me.

And Dutch. Oh wonderful cruel capricious god of this small world of Arthur’s.

He does.

Hand on his throat, crowding Arhur up and back against the wall in the ramshackle old motel he finally found him in. Hand on his throat, fingers digging bruises, face inches from his,

“What are you hoping to achieve?” Dutch’s voice is low and throaty, even he can’t hide the need in it. Not to Arthur. Not in this secret, hidden space of theirs.

“A good fucking. If you’re up to it.” An edge to Arthur’s voice. A small, untethered admonishment,

They haven’t, you see, do you see?

For months upon months Dutch has left Arthur alone, hard and wanting, needing him and only him. Dutch has left him alone, with no explanation.

None needed. They promised that.

But still.

“Get you a whore then.” 

Arthur arches his back, pushing his hips into Dutch’s, presses his lips into a thin line.

“I ain’t gonna beg.” 

At that Dutch smiles, a wicked slash of a grin.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing now, my boy?” He reaches down with his free hand, pushes it between their pressed bodies and cups him. Hard enough to bruise, of course.

“Rubbing up against me like a bitch in heat?”

“I ain’t no bitch Dutch.”

Touch me again, he thinks, harder, like you need it.

“You been teasing me boy.” And the touch turns to a caress for half a moment and Arthur bites back a moan, forces it down, won’t give him the satisfaction yet.

“Walking around camp all wounded and angry. Fighting anyone who dares to come near. Looking,” At this word Dutch pushes him again, hand harder at his throat taking his breath, shoves him so forcefully that Arthur’s back rattles against the wood, “Looking like this.”

Like what? Arthur thinks. He looks the same as always.

But there’s a glint in Dutch’s eyes that he hasn’t seen in a good long while.

And he’s harder than ever before.

“Boy, you trouble me.” Dutch murmurs the words as he swiftly unbuckles his own belt, dropping it to the ground in a clatter of metal. 

“I don’t mean to.” He means that, with all his heart.

“Yes you do.” 

“Well, maybe.” He means that too.

Arthur’s shirt is next, yanked up and above his head and off with little care for the wounds on his shoulders, the bruises on his ribs from another fight gone wrong. 

Fingers in the waistband of his jeans settle and stop. Lips so close to his own that he can taste him. Dutch’s eyes roam his face, down and down further, over his chest, gaze settling on,

“How desperate you are.” Another murmur, whiskey rich. 

“Dutch.” He speaks his name like a prayer. He always has in moments like this. He can’t help it. The anger and the need and the reverence and the guilt.

“I could touch you now and you’d come.” Boots kicked off, jeans pooled at his ankles, Arthur presses naked and ashamed to the wall. 

“You think so?”

“I know so.” Dutch is still dressed, apart from a button here and there, and the belt of course. “I could touch you and off you’d go, like a gunshot. A second and gone.” 

“I ain’t that quick off the draw Dutch.” He’s almost offended,

Almost.

Maybe if he wasn’t so hard. 

Maybe if Dutch wasn’t smiling that smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Oh but he just wants.

He wants to come. He wants to lose himself. He wants Dutch’s mouth on his, hands on him, cock in him.

“Lover,” Oh don’t say that word in that voice. Arthur closes his eyes. “You want so much.”

And then the hand on his throat is back, guiding him this time, pushing him down to his knees on the dusty rickety floor. Dutch stays above him, bowed over, reaches his free hand out to steady himself against the wall,

They look to one another, a split second.

No words ever needed.

Arthur opens Dutch’s pants with practiced deft fingers, opens his mouth, steadies himself.

He fucks him relentlessly.

Always does, when he’s kept himself away from Arthur so long. His self imposed exile.

Hips pistoning, hitting the back of Arthur’s throat on every push, tears forming in his eyes as Dutch grips a fistful of his hair and holds on, 

Faster and faster and faster until,

He stops,

Grips the back of Arthur’s head in one strong hand.

Holds him there.

Until his lungs beg for air. Until his throat closes. Until he flicks his tear stained eyes up to Dutch and sees him watching him.

And then, 

A beat or two more before he lets him go. 

Let him catch that air, that breath, that…

“Relax.” The word is softly spoken. 

“I can’t around you.” An admission, one that could go either way. Dutch stops, stills, in the way that Arthur has come to hate, if he could hate anything about him. 

“Relax.” He says it again, as Arthur’s hands come up, slide around to cup his backside. Not pushing, not demanding.

Waiting.

And then

Again, and again, and again,

Each thrust harder than the last, the stretch and flex of his muscles under his hands, the tautness, the breathlessness, waiting for that hitch, that sound, that gasp that he knows, will always know.

Yes,

There it is.

Arthur closes his eyes, lets Dutch slip from his mouth with a filthy sounding pop. Eyes still closed he feels Dutch sweep a thumb across his brow before he grips to his hair again, shoves his head up and back,

Sticky, hot, burning across his lips, down his chin, slipping down to the hollow of his throat.

Branded.

His.

Always.

Fingers push between his slack lips, hand grips to his jaw as Dutch gasps for breath above him and Arthur's cock, hard and swollen and almost forgotten rears its head again at the touch.

“Come.” He pulls Arthur up bodily, holding him tight against the wall again and Arthur both hates and loves that he’s the one in this state. He’s the one ruffled and limp and breathless, and Dutch is cool and composed, wicked smile, not a hair out of place. 

“I…” 

Fingers touch him, the cool of the rings burn even through the heat.

“Come Arthur.” 

He wants to. He wants to do it on command. If he could,

If he could he would.

He screws his eyes shut, digs his fingers into Dutch’s shirt and pulls him closer, spreads his legs and ruts up into the touch, too quick too rough too soft too hard.

His lips find Dutch’s throat as he feels the shakes come.

He buries his face in him as white hot heat explodes in his gut, in Dutch’s hand, he cries out, bites hard at the white starched collar as he comes, shuddering and empty.

Silence 

But for the splatter of his desires on the floor.

But for Dutch’s breaths, harsher now than they had been this entire time.

Arthur unpeels his hands from him, his knuckles white and aching and drops back as Dutch pulls away, straightens himself out, goes to the bottle of whiskey in the corner of the room.

“Dutch, I…” Holds up a hand to silence him.

“Don’t forget this.” He says only, before he swigs from the bottle and drops down onto the bed.

He won’t.

He can’t.

It could be months again. Months upon months before this happens once more.

He won’t ever forget.

He never has.


End file.
